


Today Has Been Okay

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, homelessnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How was anybody supposed to help Martin, if he didn't bloody ask?</p><p> </p><p>http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4207.html?thread=6111599#cmt6111599</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today Has Been Okay

"Martin!"

He doesn't move.

"Martin, you useless lump of-- _there_ you are. What on earth are you doing?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Martin, I know that I don't pay you to be here, but I do entrust my livelihood to your care, and in return for that privilege, I expect you to _listen to me_ when I speak to you."

Martin turns slightly in his seat. "What is it, Carolyn?"

Carolyn draws herself up to her full height. It isn't a lot of height, but it's Carolyn, so it's impressive anyway.

"You tell me," she says flatly. "You said before we took off that you wanted to speak to me in private once we'd landed. Well, here I am. What did you want?"

He blinks at her. Yes, he had said that, hadn't he? For some stupid reason, he'd thought that morning that maybe, just maybe, he could take Carolyn into his confidence, and she would…not have _pity_ on him, he doesn't think she has a scrap of pity in her whole body, but _help_ him, however grudgingly. 

To be fair, that had been eight hours ago. Eight hours ago, she _might_ have helped him. 

"It's nothing," he says. "It doesn't matter, it's not…important." It's only the roof over his head and the food in his stomach. It's only _him_. He ought to know better by now than to expect that to matter to anyone.

Carolyn purses her lips, frowning down at him. "Look, Martin, I didn't want to say anything. God knows, I take no pleasure in watching you cringe at me like a flushed rabbit before the foxes. But you simply can't keep on this way. You ignored Douglas's advice today and made a fantastically expensive and even more fantastically unnecessary diversion. You do want to keep flying, don't you? Because one more blunder of that magnitude during this quarter will sink us."

"I didn't do it to amuse myself," he says heavily. God, his head hurts. He's not even hungry anymore, he just feels sick and tired. "The warning light--"

"Douglas told you it was a malfunction. Of the _light_ , not the equipment. Honestly, after Albacete--"

"Douglas isn't the captain!" Why does no one ever understand this? "Whether anybody likes it or not, I am legally and, and _morally_ responsible for making decisions about the safety of the aircraft, and I have to _make_ those decisions based on the information that I have at the time!"

"You had all the information you needed! You had Douglas! He's been flying Gerti longer than you have, and he's been flying aeroplanes since you were in nappies. How is it a responsible decision to ignore him when he is giving you advice?"

Martin bows his head. She's right, of course. Douglas is the better pilot. He has more skill, and more experience, and an absolutely devastating knack for winding Martin up to the point that it's almost impossible to tell the difference between Douglas being a wanker, and Douglas being a wanker he needs to listen to.

It's almost impossible to tell the difference, but not completely. If Martin had eaten in the last three days, if he hadn't spent the last three nights shivering on a bare mattress in the back of his van and waking up for the last three mornings feeling like he'd run a marathon in his sleep, he would have known better, instead of digging in his heels and telling Douglas to just _bloody shut up for once and let me do my damn job._

Douglas hasn't spoken to him since then. He'd just raised an eyebrow, waved a hand, completed the rest of the flight in an attitude of aloof disdain, underscored by a faint satisfaction, because of course he knew what Martin was in for once they got back to Fitton. He hadn't needed to say anything, because he'd known Carolyn would say it all for him.

What little remaining energy Martin has seems to seep from his body and pool around his ankles. He can barely keep his head up, or his eyes open. Why is he even bothering to defend himself? He knows he was wrong. And it doesn't matter _why_ he was wrong, because it doesn't change the fact that MJN can't afford his mistakes, whatever his reasons. 

"I'm sorry," says Martin. "You're right, of course. I should have listened to Douglas. I'll, I'll tell him so. It won't happen again."

Rather than looking mollified, Carolyn frowns at him even harder. She stands there for so long that Martin begins to grow irritated. If he hangs about any longer, he'll end up falling asleep at the wheel. He's got to drive around for a bit tonight and find a new place to park his van; the police had woken him up and packed him off last night, and he needs to find somewhere more secluded. A church carpark, possibly.

"Go home, Martin," says Carolyn, sounding strangely gentle. "You look dead on your feet, and you've got to be back here at seven sharp tomorrow morning."

Martin nods listlessly. Eventually Carolyn turns and walks away. He listens to her footsteps in the echoing distance; it matches the throbbing of his pulse in his aching temples.

He's still sitting there when a movement in the door alerts him to Douglas's presence. Martin lifts his head, as Douglas comes to stand before the desk.

"Did my ears deceive me," says Douglas, "or did I just hear Sir utter to Carolyn the words, 'I should have listened to Douglas'?"

Despite everything, a tiny part of Martin relaxes. He doesn't like being on the outs with Douglas. If Douglas is speaking to him, that must mean he's been forgiven.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I'm--I'm sorry. I wasn't--I was tired."

"Now that," says Douglas, "I believe. I thought this morning that you didn't look quite the thing, and if you'll forgive me saying so, you look positively ghastly now. Are you going to be all right to drive tonight?"

"Of course." What if he asks Douglas? He'd considered it earlier, but unlike Carolyn, Douglas does, occasionally take pity on him, and pity is more than the tattered rags of Martin's pride can withstand at the moment. He'd rather have Douglas take the mickey out of him than be painfully, distantly considerate. Still, they have a long flight tomorrow, and if Martin spends another night in an unheated van in subzero temperatures, he might wake up in the morning actually, rather than nearly, unfit to fly.

"So, do you," Martin grasps for a casual way to lead in to the question. "Do you have plans for tonight?"

"But of course," says Douglas. "It's Friday, isn't it? I intend to descend upon the nightlife of Fitton, such as it is, with all the wit and verve of the newly divorced man with a newly empty flat, and see about obtaining some company for myself."

Right. 

"Well," says Martin, "good luck with that."

"Oh, Martin, I hardly need luck."

"Of course not."

He's nearly out of the door of the portacabin, when Douglas says, "Martin," and he turns back. Against his will, a spark of hope flickers to life in his chest. Maybe Douglas was only joking? Maybe he's put the pieces together, and he's about to offer--

"I appreciate the apology," Douglas says. "All the same, I'd appreciate it more if you didn't do it again. Part of being a captain is knowing your limits. I don't have the authority to override you, so you have to keep in mind when the responsible thing to do is override yourself."

Right.

Martin stares at the floor for a moment, but there's really nothing to say. He can feel Douglas's eyes boring into his back.

"See you in the morning," he says.

He stumbles a bit on his way out the door, but whether it's from lightheadedness, or simple desperation to be gone, not even he can tell.

*

Martin manages not to crash the van on the way to the church. It says something about the sort of day he's had that he's actually proud of himself for that.

He's settled into something of a routine, since the van became his home. He brushes his teeth using bottled water; one sip to get the brush wet, one to rinse his mouth. He has a piece of cardboard for the dashboard, and towels to hang in the windows, to keep the light out. He keeps his dirty laundry in a plastic bin liner, so the van doesn't start to smell of socks. 

He feels a bit guilty, having a piss in the garden behind the church, but he'd feel guiltier actually breaking into the church. The front door is unlocked, but the door to the antechamber where the loo is doesn't even have a doorknob on that side.

He sleeps in his clothes, underneath every blanket he owns, which isn't many. He wishes he could read himself to sleep, but he can't risk running the batteries down on his torch. Sleep is a long time coming; his body, apparently, can't tell the difference between shivering from cold and shaking himself awake every time he's just about to drop off. And his stomach has given up trying to convince him to be sick, and is announcing that it's hungry again--really, seriously, what's the matter with you, have you forgotten which end of you the food goes in, hungry.

Martin tells himself he's not going to play a single word game tomorrow. There is no way he's risking the cheese tray; it might be the last thing he gets to eat all week.

The rain starts at about three in the morning. It makes the temperature in the van drop at least two degrees, but at least it's soothing, almost like listening to music. 

_It would be lovely_ , Martin thinks, _if I could just pass out. A nice fainting spell would be really restful right now._

It's the last thing he thinks before the darkness swallows him.

*

Douglas is halfway to the airfield the next morning when his phone rings. He scowls at it irritably; he's not yet ten minutes late, honestly, must Carolyn hound him so? 

He pulls off to the side of the road without cutting the engine off. "Good morning, Carolyn," he says, with forced cheerfulness. "I'm nearly there, so if you'd just let me get back on the road--"

"I need you to go to Martin's house," she cuts him off. "He isn't here and he isn't answering his phone."

"Carolyn." Douglas pinches the bridge of his nose. "Martin is never late. Surely a first offense is no reason to take extreme measures. He'll probably be gone by the time I get there. anyway."

"He didn't look well last night," she says. "Anything might make him late, but there's no reason why he shouldn't be answering the phone, unless something is stopping him. If he's ill, I'd like to know about it _before_ I schedule any flights that will only have to be canceled."

"He's probably just dropped his phone in the toilet, you know," Douglas mutters. "All right, Carolyn, but remember that I undertake this errand at your behest. No docking me for being late."

"You were already late," she says tartly, and hangs up.

Sighing, Douglas shifts the car back into traffic and turns in the direction of Martin's street. He's only been there once, but it's a short drive--not that there really are any long drives, in Fitton. Christ, but it's early--he doubts anyone except Martin will be awake, and if Martin really is ill, there might not be anyone to let him into the house. What is he supposed to do then, scale the ivy to Martin's window, like a teenage suitor in a ridiculous film?

Ten minutes later, Douglas parks his car along the curb and rings the doorbell. When no one answers, he rings twice more, then bangs on the door and the window. Presently, a sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired youth who isn't Martin deigns to answer.

"Yeah?" he says, peering suspiciously at Douglas while scratching his armpit.

"I'm here to collect Martin Crieff," says Douglas. "Would you be good enough to tell him I'm here?"

The boy's look of bleary confusion doesn't clear. "Martin?"

"Yes. Short, ginger, obsessed with planes. He's even been known to fly them. I believe he lives in the attic, no doubt so he can be closer to the sky."

"Yeah, I know Martin," says the boy slowly. "But he's not here, is he?"

"How long ago did he leave?" _I_ told _Carolyn_ , Douglas thinks irritably. 

"Dunno." The boy looks behind him, as though he expects to find the answer written on the kitchen wall. "Three, four days ago?"

Douglas blinks. The restless tapping of his foot ceases. "I beg your pardon?" 

"Got evicted." The boy shrugs. "He cleared off with his stuff."

" _Really._ " A dim, unpleasant suspicion begins to form at the back of Douglas's mind. "Did he leave an address?"

"Kate asked him, I think." The boy takes a few steps back into the house. "Hey, Katie? Did Martin say where he was going? Yeah, I dunno, for mail and stuff?"

Douglas waits impatiently for the unwashed student to reappear. He can hear the sounds of a conversation taking place inside. A few seconds later, a short and, thankfully, groomed girl makes her way to the door.

"Hi," she says. "Um, Martin didn't seem to know where he'd be going? He said something about going to stay with one of his friends. Do you know a Douglas, or a Carolyn?"

His unpleasant suspicion takes on the sudden weight of a confirmed fact. It sinks like lead to the pit of Douglas's stomach, and sits there, heavy and uncomfortable. "I do, yes."

"Right, check with them maybe? That's all I know to tell you, I'm afraid. He asked me to hold his mail for him till he had another address, but he's not collected it yet."

"I see," says Douglas. He is very much afraid that he does. "Thank you."

He walks back to his car and sits, slumping, behind the wheel, his thoughts turning back to the previous night. Martin had looked pale and thin, that was true, but he _always_ looked like that. He'd also seemed dejected, all the fight gone out of him, but anyone might look like that after finding themselves on the wrong side of Carolyn's wrath. There was no way Douglas could have known. Not unless he'd asked. 

But of course he hadn't asked, had he? 

Suddenly, Douglas realizes what Martin had been getting at, asking him if he'd had plans for the night. Douglas had lied to him, blandly and easily, and hadn't spare a thought to wonder at the oddly resigned expression on Martin's face. 

_Damn_ the boy. It's been three days. Yesterday had been bad for everyone, he can see why Martin had hesitated to bring it up then, but what of the two before that? How was anyone supposed to help him, if he didn't bloody ask? Douglas isn't a mind-reader. He'd shoved a piano two miles uphill because Martin needed his help, what more did he have to do to prove that they were friends, that he could be relied on in a crisis? 

When he finds Martin--and he _is_ going to find Martin--he had better be all right. Otherwise, Douglas is going to kill him.

He sighs heavily and picks up the phone to call Carolyn.

"Yes?" she says, when she answers the phone a few seconds later. "Do you have him? Tell him he's lucky the client is running late, or I'd be giving him a salary just so I could dock every penny of it again."

Under the circumstances, the joke is distinctly unfunny. "I don't have Martin, no." Douglas reaches for the steering wheel. He's slightly surprised to find himself gripping it with white-knuckled force. 

"Well, what is it? Is he ill?"

"I strongly suspect that, when we find him, the answer will be yes." He shuts his eyes and leans his head back. "I've just been to his flat. He was evicted, three or four days ago. The girl said--" Douglas's mouth is suddenly dry, and he has to clear his throat. "When I asked where he might have gone, all she said was that we should check with his friends Douglas and Carolyn."

Carolyn doesn't speak for a rather long moment after that.

"…Oh." She sounds oddly deflated, and very un-Carolynish. "Oh, the little _idiot_. He asked if he could talk to me yesterday, but I'm afraid I rather…"

She trails off, her voice growing faint.

"Yes," says Douglas, remembering what he'd overheard of the lecture Carolyn had given Martin, remembering his own chastising remarks as Martin had stood half in and half out of the door with a strangely hopeful look on his face. "I'm afraid I rather, too."

"What can we do?" Carolyn's voice turns brisk. "I suppose he's sleeping in that van of his, unless something's gone wrong with it too."

"That's my working theory, at the moment." It's no more than a degree or two above freezing even now. He can only guess what the temperature was last night. "But it's not parked on his street, and I don't know where else he would go."

"Well, where would you park if you were sleeping in your car?"

"If memory serves," says Douglas tersely, "it was usually on the same street as the pub I'd stumbled out of the night before."

Carolyn vents a heavy sigh. "Right," she says. "I suppose I'd better phone the police."

"Yes, you'd better." Douglas straightens and puts the keys into the ignition. "Since, needless to say, Martin isn't likely to be in a condition to fly today, even if we do find him, I think I'll just drive around the area and have a bit of a look." It's probably a useless gesture, but the alternative--going back home, sitting in his flat and trying to ignore the crushing weight of his guilt--doesn't appeal to him.

"All right," says Carolyn. "If you do find him…"

"Yes?"

"Never mind." She sighs. "I'll tell him myself."

"Yes," says Douglas. "You'd better do that too."

*

When Martin wakes up, his head is pounding even harder than it was when he went to bed. He tries to sit up, but only succeeds in twitching slightly under the blankets. For the first time in days, he isn't the least bit cold. He's _burning_. His throat is so dry he can barely swallow. Every muscle in his body aches like he's been hauling double beds and wardrobes up ten flights of stairs.

Around the edges of the towels in the windows, he can see the pearly grey light of early morning. Oh, God, he's overslept. Had he even remembered to set the alarm on his phone last night? He fumbles at the edge of the mattress and picks it up, holding the screen close to his face. It's dark; the battery's died. God, Carolyn is going to be furious, she must have been calling him for ages.

The pounding starts again, and this time he realizes it isn't just in his head. It's coming from outside the van too.

"Martin!" The voice is muffled, but it's unmistakably familiar, and Martin's stomach lurches with a combination of dread and hope. "Martin, open this door. I'm not paying for the repairs if I have to pry it open with a crowbar."

Martin sits up, fast, and instantly groans and falls back onto the mattress. He takes a deep breath, and immediately begins coughing, with deep, wet rasps that hurt his chest. He feels like he's gargled sandpaper.

The pounding stops. "Are you all right?" Douglas sounds worried. 

"Nnngh," says Martin, covering his face with his hand.

Outside the van, he hears footsteps. Then he hears the sound of a door opening, and light floods the dim interior.

"Martin." Douglas is kneeling in the driver's seat, looking at Martin over the back of the headrest. "Are you all right? I've been looking for you for hours, why weren't you answering your phone?"

"Nnngh," says Martin, gesturing at the dead phone with one floppy hand. He tries to push himself up on his elbow, but his elbow turns to water before he's halfway up, and he ends up lying facedown on the mattress. It's comfortable; he thinks he'll stay there.

There's a rustle of fabric, and a grunt of discomfort from Douglas, and then Douglas is in the back of the van with Martin, kneeling beside the mattress. "What's the matter with you?" he murmurs, and then a deliciously cool hand comes to rest against Martin's forehead. "Ah. Of course. You're taking up a new line of work as a human furnace. I can see how that would interfere with functions such as speaking and moving."

Martin forces his eyes open and blinks at Douglas. He looks tense and worried, and strangely apologetic. Suddenly, the peculiarity of the situation comes home to Martin, and he exerts all his strength to push himself upright, over Douglas's protests, to sit with his back against the wall.

"What are you doing here?" Douglas winces; even Martin can hear how bad he sounds. "How did you find me?"

"I drove around Fitton, sniffing the air for traces of suicidal stupidity." Douglas scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"What? No, I'm not--" More coughing. Martin nearly topples over again, but Douglas reaches out and grips both his shoulders.

"If I may just correct you on one minor point, _yes you are_. You can walk, or I can put you over my shoulder, but you're going, hopefully before your incipient pneumonia becomes the real thing." Douglas's hold on him tightens, he looks suddenly pained. "Christ, Martin, why didn't you tell me what was happening to you?"

He can't say, _I didn't think you'd care_. That would be cruel, and untrue. 

"I didn't want…" He stares down at the floor. Douglas's hands are warm and heavy on his shoulders, and he feels, suddenly, that he'd like nothing better than to just let himself slump forward against Douglas's chest and let the warmth spread through his whole body. "It was my own fault."

"What was, Martin?"

If he weren't so tired, if his head didn't feel like it was floating a few feet above his shoulders, he'd never let himself say this to Douglas. But nothing feels very real, at the moment--more like a dream, and you can say anything in dreams, can't you? 

"I could have done something else," he says. "Made a proper living. But I wanted to be a pilot, and this was the only way. It's…worth it, it is, I still think it's worth it. But I can't complain, can I? I--" He draws a deep, rattling breath. "I could have done something else."

Douglas looks…sad. Martin's not used to seeing him look like that, with deep creases around his eyes and a gentle downturned cast to his mouth.

"Could you?" he says. "Really?"

Martin blinks. "No," he says shakily.

Douglas sighs and looks down. Then he gets to his feet, bending double as he makes his way to the back of the van. He opens the doors and throws them wide, then climbs back inside.

"Come on." He kneels beside Martin and wraps a strong arm around Martin's chest. "Up you get."

Unable to muster the strength for any more protests, Martin lets Douglas haul him to his feet and half drag him out of the van and into the light. He steps down gingerly, and immediately begins to sway, but Douglas keeps hold of him so he doesn't fall.

"How do you feel about opera?" says Douglas, as he guides Martin to the passenger side of the Lexus.

"What?" Martin blinks at him.

"I sometimes play opera rather loudly. I tend to stay up late, I always steal the crossword from the paper, and I cook with garlic rather a lot. Would any of that bother you?"

"Am I hallucinating?"

"Are all your things in your van? I'll come back for them this afternoon. I suppose you don't have any furniture, but my spare room has a bed and a desk and all that sort of thing."

"Douglas." Martin braces himself against the side of the car and turns to look at him. Douglas is wearing his normal expression of aloof unconcern, but there's something tense and wary in his eyes. "You--you don't have to do this. Really."

"Martin." Douglas opens the passenger door and holds it open for him. "I can honestly tell you that I really couldn't do anything else."

Martin stares at him for a long moment. It's probably only the fever that's making his eyes water so much. He turns to get into the car, and a moment later Douglas joins him.

When Douglas turns the ignition, the radio blares to life, playing Puccini.


End file.
